


That Man of Mine

by Pickwick12



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5776897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pickwick12/pseuds/Pickwick12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is a sequel to Someone to Watch Over Me. It's the continuation of Ana Jarvis's diary, all about her new life with Edwin Jarvis in New York and her work as a spy outfitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September 21, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're a terrible, wonderful man," I said, kissing him in the middle of a New York department store. He blushed; I didn't.

September 21, 1943

I love New York City. I love the noise and the lights and the strange smells all blended together. And I love the shopping. After all, I used to work in a clothing store, but it was nothing like the ones that line the streets here. Even in wartime, their windows are filled with the most beautiful hats and dresses and suits I've ever seen.

We have—money. I've never known what it was like to have money, but Edwin grew up with it. He stands to inherit a fortune from his family in England, on top of the frankly shocking salary Howard Stark pays his "sort-of butler." I find it strange to try to remember that I don't have to worry about buying the cheapest tea or the oldest bread.

I'm not starting this new journal very logically, am I? It's just that I'm happy here. Every morning, I wake up next to a man who wears striped pajamas and brings me coffee in bed. He says it's all right if I don't want to go out, if it's all too overwhelming right now, but I love going out. And I love making him tea and watching him work.

"Darling," he said, the fourth day after I'd arrived, "I know that Mr. Stark has provided a wardrobe of clothing for you, but perhaps you'd like to supplement with some things of your own choosing." That's when he told me how much money we have, that he wanted to share everything with me because I am his wife and his lover and his friend.

"Are you saying I look ugly?" I teased. I knew very well I didn't. I was wearing a bright green suit from the collection in my closet.

Edwin looked genuinely horrified, so I sat on his knee and kissed him to show that I wasn't upset. "I simply meant," he continued, when I let him, "that since you were so—glamorous—in Budapest, I expected you'd have your own ideas about these things.

I threw back my head and laughed. "Glamorous in my old dresses and my faded slacks.I only looked presentable because of my sewing skills."

He pulled me around to face him. "You always had a certain—something, you know, with your red lips and your full skirts."

"Something, hmm?"

He kissed me that time, and it was a while before he pulled away to take a breath. "If you'd like, I'll take you into the city, and you may shop to your heart's content." I wouldn't have minded going alone, but I didn't want to spend a moment apart from my husband since we'd been back together such a short number of days.

I won't give a tedious account of everywhere we went, but I'd never seen anything like it. Budapest, with all of its shops and cafes, couldn't compare. I must say, Edwin was an extremely tolerant companion. Of course, I did give him a perpetual fashion show, and he very unhelpfully, but extremely charmingly, told me I looked beautiful in everything and threatened to buy it all.

I did indulge myself, I'll admit. I've never had the means to own beautiful things, and I cried the first time I looked in a store's wide mirror and saw myself in a dress that made me look like a fashionable wife instead of a rabbi's daughter. I tried to hide my tears from Edwin, but he's too perceptive for that.

"What's wrong, Ana? Do you want to go home?"

I shook my head. "I'm so happy. I've never—felt pretty like this."

He cupped my cheek and shook his head. "You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, that day I caught a glimpse of you in the shop window. I didn't really need a necktie, you know."

I didn't know. "You're a terrible, wonderful man," I said, kissing him in the middle of a New York department store. He blushed; I didn't.

I remember that store particularly because when we were checking out at the register, the cashier looked at my husband and said, "Such a beautiful wife. You must be very proud."

"I am," he answered, grinning.

I touched my face as we walked out. It hadn't occurred to me that I could seem beautiful to anyone but my father and my husband. "I'm finally happy," I thought, "and it's showing on my face."

"Come on!" I dragged Edwin all around the city and even made him wait while I purchased all sorts of cosmetics—face powders, lipsticks, rouge—pretty little things I'd always wanted and never gotten to have.

We ate lunch in a tiny cafe on a street corner, where they made us terrible American tea and served us delicious sandwiches. "We've never had a date like this before," I said after a few bites. "I like it." Edwin was sitting across the table, handsome and relaxed, like an advertisement for men's cologne.

"I like you," he answered.

We went home in the mid-afternoon, but our last stop was a music shop, where I insisted we visit to purchase more records for the player in our suite. It was a little place filled with used records, and it reminded me of Budapest more than anywhere else we'd been. I felt a tiny pang of homesickness for the land I'd left behind, but I quickly put it out of my mind as I took my husband's hand and went back to our car.

When we got back to the mansion, it took me ages to put everything away because I kept looking at the beautiful fabrics and the smart hats and the little gold bullets that promised kissable lips for Edwin. My husband stood in the doorway of our bedroom, watching me with a faraway look in his eyes.

"I'm so happy, Mr. Jarvis," I said, twirling around with a red scarf.

"Ana," he said softly, after a moment, "I know—you say you like it here, but do you miss your home? You must tell me."

I pulled him into our living room and sat on the sofa with him, resting my head on his shoulder. "You're my home now," I said, closing my eyes. "But you're going to spoil me."

He reached his arm around me. "I want you to feel like a queen."

"Well," I said, "I'm fairly sure a queen wouldn't have the sort of idea that's been swimming around in my head all day."

"What do you mean?" He looked down at me quizzically.

"Well, you know those lovely little guns and knives and miniature cameras in Stark's development lab—the ones he showed me the other day?"

"Yes." Edwin's voice was dubious.

"I'd like to do my part to earn my living here. I don't want to sit idle all day."

"You haven't got to do anything," my husband rejoined, which was very gallant of him and earned him a kiss on his perfectly-shaped nose.

"I know," I answered, "but I'd like to. To try, anyway."

"What sort of thing did you have in mind?"

"Well," I answered, "Stark has agents, and I'm very good with a needle and with the kind of machinery that goes into developing new things. I might be able to take some of those clever little weapons and put them together with disguises to create a new sort of asset—fashion and weaponry, a lethal combination.

"I must say," observed my husband, "New York is revealing quite an interesting side of you."

"And what do you think about that, Mr. Jarvis?"

"I admit, I find you even more fatally charming than ever." He's very good at saying just the right thing, my Edwin.

Late in the evening, I changed into my new purple silk pajamas and luxuriously soft white robe. "Dance with me," I said to my husband, and I turned on one of our new records—one that was actually quite old.

He can come home as late as can be

Home without him ain't no home to me

Can't help lovin' that man of mine

Ella Fitzgerald's sultry voice filled our suite as Edwin's sure feet guided me across the floor. "Do you remember when we danced in our robes the day I asked you why you'd stayed with me?" I asked softly, remembering a day that seemed like ages ago but was only, really, a few weeks back.

"Of course," said Edwin.

"I was such a mess," I continued. "I can't believe you put up with me."

"You were beautiful then, just as you're beautiful now." He didn't wait for the song to finish. He picked me up and carried me to bed.

He's sleeping now, and I'm writing by the light of the Tiffany lamp on my bedside table. I think—I hope, at least—that this little black journal will become the chronicle of something important, the record of how I finally have the chance to do what I've always wanted, to create something new, something that's entirely mine. My head is already racing with ideas.

But I need to sleep. My husband's soft breathing is lulling me into drowsiness, and I want to drift off with my head on his shoulder. I know that as the days pass, we'll argue and fight and disagree, but today I feel just like a princess with the sweetest prince in the whole world.


	2. September 28, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd noticed that something was wrong the previous day, but I'd just thought he was out of sorts, and I didn't want to nag. This time, I wasn't willing to let it go. I'm too direct a person, and I can't bear the kind of silent awkwardness that keeps mounting until you're ready to scream.

September 28, 1943

I've been filling these pages with drawings of dresses with pockets and underclothing with secret compartments, and my brain has been so consumed that I haven't written a proper entry in a few days. Edwin and I have just had our first real spat, though, and I think that warrants an entry of its own. We once argued, for a moment or two in a Budapest hotel room, about how far he was willing to go to protect me, but that hardly counted.

I've had a marvelous week, thinking through outfit concepts and visiting Stark's lab every morning to see what he and his scientists have created. I've been to the city three more times—twice for things like ribbons and lace (all the better to conceal guns and knives) and once for a sewing machine. I had one in Budapest, but it was a very old one passed down from my mother. Now I have the latest model.

As I said before, I like New York, and I'm not in the least afraid to drive myself into the city or get a taxi when Edwin is working. After all, when he's not doing the "sort-of" part of his job, he's Stark's actual butler, and he has a huge household to run and house to care for. I don't mind; I like my own company, Sometimes I watch him do things like polishing silver, and I entertain him while he works, but it's good for me to have something of my own to occupy me.

Two evenings ago, I came in late from the city. The last shop I'd visited, a small place filled with buttons of every shape and size, had been busy, and I'd had to wait an inordinate length of time to receive assistance.

"I'm sorry I'm so late, darling," I said when I came in with my parcels. Edwin was just putting dinner onto our kitchen table, and I was glad I hadn't made his succulent-looking roast chicken go cold. I came close for my usual kiss, and Edwin gave it to me, but something was different than usual, disconnected and stiff. I'd noticed that something was wrong the previous day, but I'd just thought he was out of sorts, and I didn't want to nag. This time, I wasn't willing to let it go. I'm too direct a person, and I can't bear the kind of silent awkwardness that keeps mounting until you're ready to scream.

I sat down at the table and ate with my husband, but we said very little. I was determined to talk it out after we finished, and Edwin seemed lost in whatever was bothering him.

Finally, when I'd finished the dishes, I came into our living room and sat on the sofa next to him. "You're angry. I can tell," I said shortly. " Tell me why." I was fed up with dancing around the issue when I knew very well that my husband had something seething under the surface. Edwin is an easygoing man in many ways, but he has his limits, and I'm just learning them.

"I shouldn't be upset," he answered, more buttoned-up than ever.

"That won't help," I answered. "I want you to tell me. I'm not afraid. I'll take my scolding like a good girl." I was attempting to lighten the mood, but it didn't really work.

"Ana, I—" he took one of my hands in both of his. "It's just that sometimes, when I look at you, I remember how scared I was the day I was arrested, how sure I was that I would never see you again. I was terrified of what would happen to you. You'll probably think I'm silly, but I'm still terrified when I can't find you or you take risks and go off on your own into a new city. I know you're independent and resourceful, and I've tried to be patient. It's my problem, not yours."

He was choked up, and I couldn't take it any more. I love to hug people, but most especially him. I leaned over and gathered as much of him as I could hold into my arms. "I'm so sorry, Darling." I comforted him the way he's comforted me so many times.

"I think I've been very selfish," I said. "I've been having such a good time that I haven't asked you enough about those days. It's just that—it's so difficult for me to imagine anyone loving me enough to feel that bad about losing me, to still worry about it so much." The words were very personal, so deep inside me that they were hard to get out, but I thought my husband deserved to hear them.

Edwin extricated himself from my arms. "Don't you dare doubt it, Ana Jarvis. I like to think I'm a tolerant man, but there are things I cannot take. You believing you're worth any less to me than you truly are is one of them." He gave me a very pointed look, but its effect was to make me grin, probably not the one he'd intended.

"I like you this way," I said. "Very authoritative."

"Pish," he grumbled. "You have me wrapped around your pinky finger, and you know it."

I nodded, but then I got serious again and took his hand in both of mine, like he'd done to me. "I really am sorry, Darling. I can't promise not to be independent and stubborn and unpredictable, but I can promise that I won't go far without telling you where I'm going. In fact, I have an idea. There's this little thing one's of Stark's scientist invented, a tracker and alert system small enough to fit in a necklace. If I wear it and find myself in any kind of danger, I can press the middle, and it will light up the other half and project an immediate map of my location. You could have that half in your cufflink or in a ring or anything you like. And, if you got very nervous, you could always just press your half and find out where I am any time."

He looked at me intently for a moment. "You wouldn't mind?"

"Not at all," I said, "if it would make you feel safer. I trust you, Mr. Jarvis. I don't mind you knowing where I am. In fact, I'd be quite delighted if you ran after me." Edwin nodded, and I could feel the atmosphere changing from one of heightened emotion back to our usual peaceful calm.

"I rather like fighting with you," said Edwin, looking surprised.

"I'm quite sure I like fighting with you," I said. "Perhaps we should schedule an argument once a week."

"I doubt planning one will be necessary," he replied, which made me laugh.


	3. September 29, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I woke up feeling safe and warm, only to find that I was all grown up and that my father was gone.

September 29, 1943

I did fall asleep on my husband's shoulder last night, but I dreamed about my father. I was back in our little house in Budapest, and I was a little girl, the age I was soon after my mother died, I think. It was the Sabbath, and my father was lighting the candles and speaking the blessing over me, words of peace and comfort. I had always loved the ritual, and when my father and I were alone, it had bonded us together.

May God Bless you and guard you. May the light of God shine upon you, and may God be gracious to you. May the presence of God be with you and give you peace.

I woke up feeling safe and warm, only to find that I was all grown up and that my father was gone.

I turned over and cried into my pillow because I didn't want to wake Edwin. He's been so kind through my grief, and I knew there would be many more times when I would need comfort.

"Ana, what is it?" I felt a hand stroking my hair.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."

"Come." My husband gently turned me over and settled me against his chest.

"I was dreaming about my father."

"Bad dream?"

"No." I shook my head against him. "It was a good dream. He was saying the Sabbath blessing, but when I woke up, I remembered that I'll never hear him say it again." I sobbed quietly. Edwin is very good at understanding feelings, so he just held me and rubbed my back and didn't say anything else, and I finally fell back to sleep.

This morning, I awoke to the smell of coffee and my husband peeking into our room. "Good morning," he said, mugs in hand. His hair was all askew, and he was wearing his maroon robe. It was a very pleasing visual, I must say.

I beckoned him over with one finger. "I'm sorry I woke you last night, Mr. Jarvis."

"That's quite all right, Mrs. Jarvis." He handed me the coffee, and I stole a kiss. He sat down next to me and leaned on the headboard of our bed with his face close to mine. "I do want to know something. How many times has it been?"

"How many times has what been?" I asked, my mind on the flavor of the excellent coffee Stark somehow still manages to get from war-ravaged Italy.

"How many times have you been up in the night and not told me?"

I stared into my cup. "Every other night or so." I couldn't lie. He's too good at reading me.

"I should be cross with you," he said. "I thought we got over this back in Budapest. You're not good at grieving alone; you need someone to hold you. Did you think I wouldn't want to?"

I leaned my head against his shoulder and closed my eyes. "Of course not. I just—thought you'd get tired of it in the end. It's not your fault you married a woman who lost her father so quickly. It's not your grief."

He set his coffee down on the nightstand and put his arm around me, pulling me closer. "You're wrong there. I took on your grief when I married you. It's part of the deal."

"But you have a life here," I said, unintentionally voicing something that had been gnawing at me since my arrival in New York. "You have a purpose and a job, and you don't need to be too tired to do it because you've been up all night with your wife, who should be old enough to take care of herself."

Edwin turned to face me. "You're part of that purpose, not separate from it. The whole reason I accepted Mr. Stark's offer was because I knew it would make our life together possible. I'm happy for you to pursue whatever else makes you happy, but you've been a part of this world since long before you were physically here, and you always will be."

"Which," he continued, "takes us back to the original issue—you're quite the professional at stalling. I want you to promise me something—not that you'll wake me every time, but that you'll always wake me when you want someone close. I can't—bear the idea of sleeping next to you while you're crying alone."

"All right," I said, "but only if you promise to let me take care of you sometimes. I'm no sort-of butler, but I can make tea, and I can mend hems, and I can rub your feet in the evening after a long day. I wasn't raised to be useless, you know. Whatever else we do separately, I plan to go halves with you in our domestic life, Mr. Jarvis. Understand?"

He shook his head. "I knew you'd get something out of this. Very well." I let him hold me then, and I kissed him and made our bargain worth his while.

We're watching Benny Goodman now, all cuddled up snugly on our sofa after a day of testing sewing patterns on my part and overseeing the remodeling of the Stark Mansion kitchen on Edwin's. I know that to most people, my husband is an unusual man, skilled in arts only women usually master and kind where people expect the useless bravado and pointless swagger that other men display. But there are different kinds of courage and strength. My Edwin doesn't go out drinking late at night just to prove he's a man; he doesn't need to. He's handsome enough to have as many women as he'd like, but he only has one. He doesn't tell me what to do or feel threatened by the things I know. He's strong enough to be gentle, and that's why I feel safer in his arms than I've ever felt before.


	4. October 2, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked every inch the man who had risked his life to rescue me, and I took a picture in my mind to remember always.

October 2, 1943

"Darling," said Edwin yesterday morning, in that way he has when he's apprehensive about telling me something. We were taking a lazy day—he was waiting for a delivery of items that had halted the mansion remodeling, and my work could wait, so we had decided to linger in bed. He was sitting up, leaning on our headboard, and I'd contrived to sit on his lap so that I could curl up with my head against the soft fabric of his pajama shirt. It's a very fortunate thing that my husband doesn't mind me clinging to him like a congenial octopus. I know what I like, and it's to be held with his arms around as much of me as possible. I'm very happy, of course, to reciprocate and give him what he desires.

I didn't want to lift my head to answer, so I mumbled from against his chest. "What is it? Are you sick or something?"

"It's—not that," he replied quickly. "It's just that, you know the, eh, 'sort-of' bit of my employment with Mr. Stark?"

"Certainly," I said, wondering why he seemed so perturbed by talking about it.

"What do you think—it means?" His flow of speech was far less fluent than usual, but he had his long fingers in my hair, which was quite fluent in a different way.

"I assume it means some sort of clandestine activity," I said readily.

"Really?" he asked, as if he was deeply surprised.

At this point, I sat up, and he took his arms away as if he thought I didn't want them, which I did not like at all, because I wanted them very much. "Did you honestly think I didn't know, Edwin?" I asked, unable to keep from smiling. "After all, I've been spending my days with Stark's weapons. Darling, you stole an airplane for me, and you're the bravest man I've ever known. Of course Howard Stark wants you to do more than iron his laundry."

"Oh," he said, sounding relieved. I leaned back against him and pulled on his arms so he'd put them back around me, like a quilt to cover me against the cold world. He squeezed me tightly. "You don't mind?"

"I don't like to think of you in danger," I said honestly, "but I have no intention of trying to stop your work. I'm proud of my husband."

"Are you really?" He sounded surprised again, so I lifted my head and kissed him to convince him.

After a while, something occurred to me. "Why did you finally tell me this today?"

Edwin cleared his throat. "Mr. Stark has—asked me to fulfill a personal mission. I need to leave tomorrow, and I'll be away for a few days."

My heart contracted a little, but I made my voice level. "Of course, Edwin. Thank you for not trying to hide it from me. Can you—tell me what it is?"

"When I come back," he answered, "I promise I'll tell you everything.

"All right," I said. "It had better be truly important for me to give you up for whole days."

He cupped my cheek. "I've never had anything to miss while I was gone," he said softly. "It's—not a bad feeling. Bittersweet."

"Yes," I echoed.

And so I helped my husband pack the few things he wanted to take, not questioning his choices, just enjoying the closeness of working together. I made him stop to kiss me now and then, and he still looked surprised, like he always does each time, as if he can't believe I'm real and in love with him. I know we won't be newlyweds forever, but somehow I don't think those sorts of things will ever change.

He left this morning, wearing heavy trousers and a sweater, nothing like his usual suited attire. He looked every inch the man who had risked his life to rescue me, and I took a picture in my mind to remember always.

My Edwin is gone now, I know not where. Maybe I'm glad I don't know, maybe not. I wish I could say I'm not afraid, but the truth is that I am. Part of me wants to scream so that it isn't so silent in our empty rooms, but I also feel warm inside at the thought that a man like my husband belongs to me, a brave man.

To pass the time, I'm knitting Edwin a scarf for the winter. It will be navy blue and elegant and exactly suit his coloring—and it will have a pocket to conceal a knife. The next time he leaves on an adventure, he'll be wrapped up tight and warm, and I'll be warm in the knowledge of what the blue fabric holds.


	5. October 4, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your eyes are puffy, your lipstick looks like you put it on in ten seconds, your hair is falling down, and you missed a hook and eye on the back of your dress. None of that is like you at all, Ana. Besides, you know I can tell when you're lying."

October 4, 1943

I was all right for the first two days. In fact, I'd say I did pretty well, not that it matters in light of what happened—after, what happened today.

I spent the morning after Edwin left in Stark's laboratory, helping one of his scientists, a little man named Warren Peterson, put together clever little machines that do clever little things that come out of the strange brain of Howard Stark. In return, he let me bring some of my clothing designs in that afternoon and work on fitting miniature cameras into ladies' hats and trackers into men's shirt cuffs.

Before I knew it, the day was gone, spent pleasantly, and I went to the suite with dinner in hand. That was when I began to get a little melancholy. I had no Edwin to sit across from me and inquire about my day and no lap to crawl into when I wanted somewhere to let my sadness evaporate.

"Ana," I said to myself, "you're being ridiculous." So I put on my satin jade robe, went to the sofa, and turned on Benny Goodman, forcing myself to get lost in the melodies while I worked on my husband's scarf. It was over too soon, and I went to bed very early.

I couldn't sleep. After an hour, I went to Edwin's closet and took out his dressing gown, a soft, red robe that fits his broad shoulders perfectly. I took it to bed and held it, snuggling against it for dear life, smelling his cologne and imagining that he was holding me.

I must have dropped off, because the next thing I knew, I was waking up. It was extremely early in the morning, but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep again, so I got up and made up my face and put on a practical dress for the city.

I took one of Howard's cars and drove it myself. It makes Edwin nervous when I drive into the big city traffic by myself, but he doesn't try to stop me, except when he insists on coming. I wished yesterday could be one of those days, with him by my side, but I ignored my thoughts and soldiered on.

I bought more fabric—I'd nearly used up what I already had—and then I had my hair set at one of the fancier places, followed by my fingernails, which took up considerable time. When I was finished, I went to a restaurant—a sweet little place where they played old music and had tiny metal tables.

That was a mistake. As soon as I'd been seated, I looked up and saw an empty chair where my husband should have been. He'd have loved it there. I blinked back tears and made myself order a sandwich. I was hungry, and I ate it—I may worry, but I still have a working stomach.

I'd planned to go home in the afternoon, but I could tell from my emotional state that it was an unwise idea, so I went shopping for myself instead. I bought a red dress. Edwin loves me in red. Some people say redheads shouldn't wear it, but I say they can jump in a river. I like the way I look in it, and my husband likes the way I look when I'm happy. I didn't let myself leave until dusk was approaching, and I reached the mansion right when it was getting dark.

I wasn't hungry for dinner. I went to the suite and went to bed without even changing clothes. I knew it was ridiculous, but I just wanted to curl up with my husband's robe as quickly as I could. That's when my thoughts started to go haywire, and this time, I couldn't stop them. I knew, then, what was truly upsetting me. It wasn't just missing him.

In my mind's eye, I saw the things I'd imagined back in Budapest, when Edwin had been arrested, and I'd been sure I would never see him again. I imagined him captured, tortured, in pain and hungry with no Ana to comfort him. He would bear anything bravely—too bravely. He would die before he'd betray his friends.

I shuddered into my pillow. "He's all right. He knows what he's doing," I told myself over and over, but it did nothing to assuage my fears. He'd stolen a plane for me once, and he'd almost died for what he'd done. I imagined him in danger again, only this time, he didn't make it out.

I prayed, my whispered voice breaking the silence of our bedroom until the early hours of the morning. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep, but I finally did, with my clothes from the day still on, the bed still made, and Edwin's robe over me like a blanket.

This morning, I didn't get up. In my first moments of half-sleep, I forgot my husband was gone, and when I opened my eyes and didn't find him, I burst into tears, soaking the sleeve of his dressing gown.

I cried all day, my heart racing and head swimming with thoughts of all of the horrible things that were probably happening to my Edwin, things that had almost happened to him before, because of me. I was confused. I felt responsible for the danger he was in, and that showed me something I hadn't realized.

I felt guilty. Somewhere in me was a well of shame over what he'd risked for me. I hadn't known I felt that way, but it piled on top of my fear until I fell under the weight of it.

I was thankful that the household alarm sounded an arrival late this evening. I got up as quickly as I could, smoothed the bed, and changed into my new dress, hurriedly putting up my hair. I didn't have time to do my whole face, but I'd managed to apply lipstick before my husband came through the door.

"You've been crying." He kissed me and hugged me, but then he pulled away with one arm around my waist and his free hand cupping my chin. "Are you hurt? Has someone hurt you?"

I shook my head. "Nothing's wrong, darling. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Your eyes are puffy, your lipstick looks like you put it on in ten seconds, your hair is falling down, and you missed a hook and eye on the back of your dress. None of that is like you at all, Ana. Besides, you know I can tell when you're lying."

"I'm sorry I'm not more presentable," I said, making another rather feeble, I must admit, attempt. "I fell asleep and didn't have much time to get ready before you got here."

"Ana." His voice had a certain tone. It's a tone I like, but not when I'm trying to get out of telling him something. He was drilling me with his eyes, but then they darted behind me. "Why is my dressing gown in a heap on our bed?"

"I slept with it," I said quickly. That, at least, wasn't too incriminating.

He let go suddenly and went to our bed, picking up up the robe and feeling it all over until he got to the sleeve—the one I'd cried my eyes out into.

"Good heavens," he said. "This is sopping wet." He turned back around, and I came to him and hugged him around the waist so I could bury my face in his chest and avoid his eyes pressing into my avoidance like one of Stark's lasers.

He held me. "I want the whole truth. Don't lie to me. I—can't bear it." His voice broke, and that was the worst thing of all. I started crying miserably, not wanting to burden him with my worry and my guilt, but also not wanting to hurt him by keeping silent.

He took out his handkerchief and handed it to me. "Wipe your face, put on something comfortable, and meet me in the living room." He was still using that tone, the one he doesn't use often. He comforted me a little longer, with his hand stroking my hair, which was all down around my shoulders by then, and I wiped my eyes and quieted myself.

I did what he'd asked, and he took off his jacket, tie, and vest, leaving him in an untucked dress shirt. We didn't speak, but I went into our room and combed out my hairpins, wiped off my lipstick, and put on my most comfortable pajamas. I glanced at myself in the mirror and realized that I looked a mess—exactly like a woman who'd been crying for her husband all day.

"Come." He was sitting in the rocking chair next to our sofa, and he held out his arms. I couldn't resist him for a moment, and I climbed into his lap and closed my eyes. "Now," he said. "If you tell me the truth, I'll tell you what I was doing."

"You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Jarvis," I said softly.

He held me against him with his chin on top of my head. "If you hadn't tried to lie to me, we'd already be past this part."

"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. "I didn't want you to know how not brave I've been while you were gone. I cried too much and thought about ugly things, and I should have been courageous for you."

"This is my fault," he answered quickly. "I shouldn't have believed you when you said you were all right with my going. It was—inconsiderate of me to even think of it this close to your coming here. I'm sorry, my little love. I'm so sorry. But there's something else, isn't there?" His voice was gentle but insistent.

I tensed in his hold. "You—shouldn't be sorry. I'm sorry," I choked out. "I was thinking of all the things you went through for me in Hungary, of all the things that almost happened to you. I was the cause of all those things. I didn't—don't—deserve them, any of them. I didn't want to tell you. I've felt—guilty all this time, and I didn't even realize it." These few sentences tired me out, and I felt deflated as I fell back against my husband's shoulder and cried quietly, my sobs less wild than before. There was another feeling, too, something like relief.

"Oh, Ana." He sighed and pulled me closer and leaned against me so that his head was down against my shoulder. "Darling, don't you know I would do the same thing a hundred times over to protect you? A whole army couldn't stop me, not even you." He looked up then and smiled at me, his face as wet with tears as mine was. "When will you believe me when I say that I love you—just as you are, with no strings attached."

"I—don't know how to repay you," I said hesitantly, looking into his face shyly.

He wiped a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb. "Love doesn't need repayment."

Something changed then, inside me. I believed him. He never lies to me, so I knew he had to be telling the truth and mean what he said. I sighed and snuggled back into him, playing with the buttons on his shirt, tired but at peace and contented.

"You've haven't gotten enough sleep while I've been away," he said, after a while. "We're going to go to bed, and I'll tell you about it all in the morning. Butler's orders, Mrs. Jarvis. No arguments."

"No arguments," I echoed, not getting up. He took the hint and picked me up, and I put my arms around his neck and relished his strength for the few steps to our bedroom. He tucked me into bed with a kiss to my temple, and I watched him change into his own pajamas with a feeling of warm, complacent satisfaction filling me.

I was nearly asleep when he climbed into bed next to me and switched off the light, turning over to spoon me with his big arm across my small frame. "Ana," he whispered near my ear, "I love you, and I promise I won't go on another assignment until you're absolutely ready."

We went to bed so early that I woke up a couple of hours later, and I've stolen into the living room to write all of this down. Edwin is dead asleep. I was so caught up in my own turmoil that I hardly noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the unusual haggardness of his face. He needs his rest.

I'm going to go back to bed, and I don't care if I sleep or not. I know that as soon as I get in, my husband will pull me close and cuddle me in his sleep, just like he always does. I hope he always will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, I had to update after that last 2-part episode of Agent Carter. Hopefully this echoes some of the character traits that were explored in it.


End file.
